Noble
by wingedsilverfang222
Summary: When the green light hit, Harry Potter died. But who said that had to be the end? A body can hold more than one soul - as long as the balance is held. If the balance is broken? May magic have mercy.
1. Chapter Zero

_"Magic?" Father smiles, a gentle tilt of his lips that spreads warmth and life into a face that most of the time seems to be carved from stone. "You want me to explain to you what magic is?" This time Father chuckles and Ignotus puffs out his cheeks indignantly, convinced that Father is mocking him._

 _Seemingly aware of his son's annoyance Father ruffles Ignotus's hair with a calloused palm before he reaches the other hand forward, as if to touch the far off sky._

 _"Magic. Magic is life._

 _Magic is the first breath of a new born baby. Magic is the wings of an owl as it silently hunts it's prey. Magic is the waves embracing the shore, Magic is the blooming of a flower in the wake of a disaster"_

 _Father stands now, moving forward to the large windows of their drawing room that proudly overlook the Peverell estate. Ignotus watches quietly as he becomes more and more animated. Father raises his arms as though to embrace the world between them, "Magic is the body the soul and the mind. Magic I'd unfathomable, existing within everything. Magic is-"_

 _Father turns to Ignotus and kneels before the sitting child._

 _"-Magic."_

 _Ignotus blinks, "I'm not sure I understand Father,"_

 _Father simply chuckles, rising to his feet and gently carding calloused fingers through Ignotus's thick, curly hair (he leans into the touch. Its warm and safe and_ I-don't-ever-want-to-lose-this-feeling)

 _"Dont worry, Son. No one understands, personally I think it's quite simple, well-" He smirks and raises a finger to his lips, beckoning Ignotus closer before continuing in a whisper as though sharing all of the universe's secrets, "-Magic is_ ** _alive_**

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

Harry James Potter, born on the 31 of July 1980, was a quiet child.

For Lily and James Potter, both young and in love, he was perfect. Especially considering the setting he had been born into.

With the war in full swing having a child was a liability, a child born of a Pureblood and Muggleborn doubly so, and the two knew that.

From the moment they had discovered Lily's pregnancy a constant sense of anxiety and worry had permeated the air between the couple. Said worry had led to many an argument between the potters (Unfortunately, Lily was very good at arguing which led to James becoming well acquainted with the _dreaded sofa_ ) as they had to consider the world they were bringing their child into.

As time passed and the war worsened the two were forced to partially withdraw from their Order duties, Lily had, of course, violently protested to being removed from active duty but eventually, thanks to the combined efforts of Remus and Sirius (with James cowering away in the corner) the furious redhead was coerced into agreement.

The doubt had piled up, eventually becoming an aura of oppression hung heavy over their relationship as the two wondered it this child would really be worth the sacrifices they were being forced to make.

Harry was worth more, so so much more.

(James was comfortable enough in his masculinity to freely accept the tears rolling down his cheeks as he beheld the beautiful image of his wife and child together, unaware of the world as they slept)

His beautiful Harry, his beautiful Lily.

For sure, every sacrifice had been worth this, he would make a thousand more just to live with these two precious people for the rest of his life.

"James?" The Potter blinked, hastily rubbing his eyes with his sleeves as his wife's tired eyes met his own. "Are you just gonna stand there or-"

Before the woman could finish her sentence a warm arm covered her stomach amd a peaceful sigh echoed in her ear as James settled onto the bed behind her.

Dead to the world in seconds

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

( _"We're going to be fine. I swear on it," "James, how could He know?"._

 _Broken door, cracked hinges._

 _"You thought you could hide?!" "RUN LILY. RUN."_ **green light**. Broken lenses, shattered frames.

 _High voice, deep breaths. Rushed footsteps. Slammed door - weak barrier - it's all she has._

 _"Shush Harry Shush baby. Everything's fine. Mommy's here" Approaching footsteps._

 _Through the window the broken moon hangs. Moon bright. Wolf howl - "Was it you Remus?"_ . _So many memories, so many regrets. 'Can you forgive me Severus?'_

 _"Move aside girl." "Please anyone but my Harry. PLEASE!"_ **Green Light** _. "What a pity"_

 _No blood, its not messy. Pain free - she didn't suffer - probably._

 _Green eyes. Red eyes. Barely human.[What have you done to yourself Master]_

 _Raised hand - shining wand. [I wasn't made to be used this way Master of mine_

 **gReEn. LiGhT.**

 _Crumpled robes, little more than ashes, soul torn. Escape. Run away, "I'll be back,"_

 _Emptiness. Silence. No one lives. No one breathes._

 _Everything is nothing. Nothing is everything._

 _Green eyes died too soon. It wasn't supposed to be this way._

 _Magic mourns._

 _Magic manipulates._

 _Magic finds a way._

 _Rotted Yew once new and loyal and eager rolls from its former master. Taking innocent lives it could understand [COMPREHEND] but this is different. A child. My brother feather's keeper. Why Master. **WHY MASTER.** [BETRAYED]_

 _Two souls lost become one soul found. Sew it together. Pretend everything's fine. Wave a magic wand._

 _[DETERMINATION]_

 _Thirteen-and-a-half-inches. Yew. Pheonix Feather._

 _[REBIRTH]_

 _Not everything's there - its good enough._

 _"You'll be fine won't you? **Harry Potter**." )_


	2. Chapter One

Petunia Dursley was a vindictive woman, as much as she tried to deny it. And from the moment her nephew had been placed on her doorstep she had hated him on principle.

For a good reason, of course! Her sister had been tainted by magic and, in Petunia's mind as soon as lily had run off her freak school she had abandoned Petunia and everyone normal.

This child was simply a product of the taint, spawn of the devil. (Let it be known that Petunia Dursley was not the smartest nor the most productive of thinkers)

Obviously her husband, Vernon, had sympathised with all she had suffered through, in addition to sharing her view of normality and the importance of fitting in. Neither of them wanted the boy's freakishness to spread to their dearest Dudley.

To begin with they attempted to give the boy a chance, he was given the spare room and Petunia even made the effort to visit a charity shop to get an old cot for the brat. For two and a half years they cared for him from a distance and simply treated him like a guest of their household.

But it simply wasn't to last - his freakishness came out to play.

It had been a normal day. After serving breakfast to her beloved family Petunia had waited an hour, relaxing with Vernon and Duddy-kins before she headed upstairs and opened the spare bedroom door with a bottle of (somewhat stale) milk in her hand and a frown on her face. She and her husband were proud of themselves for thinking of such a clever way to keep the boy both quiet and out of sight (away from human interaction) - bedroom was at the end of the hallway and had thick walls. If the brat ever decided to show its attention seeking ways than the Dursley family wasn't going to be bothered by it.

And so she was justifiably both shocked and confused to find the child smiling.

Before the boys eyes hovered small tongues of flame, twisting and dancing, completely malleable to his control. Even as she watched the flames split to form separate forms, balls of flames rising like fireflies to cast the room in a beautiful pattern of light and shadow.

The smash of the glass bottle as it fell from her hand spoke as a grim prediction of what was to come.

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

 _Red had always been a favorite colour of his._

 _For some it was a colour of hope, of rebellion. For some a representation of courage and bravery. For others it was an omen. The colour of death and pain and suffering._ _And for some, himself included, it just was. A brute fact with no ulterior motives or reasoning. The colour of a ripe apple and blooming tulips, of autumn leaves and the ripe horse radish that could found by the moors._

 _In itself the colour red was a lot more honest and natural then most humans could claim to be._

 _He liked red._

 _But he hated the slight of blood. It was an odd sort of hate. The type of loathing you have for a one night lover that becomes someone to you. You hate them for manipulating you. You hate them for enticing you again and again._

 _But you can't stop going back._

 _(You can't stop wanting more)_

 _Their father was laid out in front of them, fingers still twitching and chest still warm. His sightless eyes were dull and mocking._

 _Blood was everywhere. It painted the walls and the floor in a nauseatingly beautiful mosaic. The murderer was an artist, colouring his canvas with a close precision, paying close attention to every singular detail - his brushstrokes fine and delicate at some points and harsh, angry in others._

 _Ignotus glanced back at the second piece of art in their home - Cadmus's work - the man laying with a hole in his heart his hand, still clenching his sword as though to defend himself with the flimsy scrap of metal, lays to the side_ _._ _(The sword that had pierced their father's heart mere moments ago)_ _A cut cleaner then a sword could ever hope to achieve had pierced through the mans wrist as Cadmus had stormed forward, glaring eyes and clenched teeth, the very visage of the demon their family had been accused of summoning spread upon his features._

 _A heart for a heart._

 _How morbid._

 _(Ignotus wonders if his own artwork will ever be as good)_

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

It hurts.

Harry tightened his arms, wrapped around his knees as they were, and gave a low whimper as the movement triggered the release of a sluggish spurt of blood from his aching back.

Uncle Vernon had been absolutely furious. Harry shut his eyes, trying in vain to stave of both the pain and the guilty tears that threatened to fall.

It hadn't been his fault. He had followed the rules!

But still.

 _How was he to know that talking to snakes wasn't normal?_

He had been in the garden, tending to his aunts beloved roses (He didn't like roses, they had thorns that hurt and bled and were _annoying_. Little bastards like him weren't allowed expensive human commodities like plasters) when the grass snake had slithered by.

It's voice had been quiet, barely audible even, but it's sibilant tones in the otherwise silent neighbourhood - everyone else was at school, work or eating lunch - had reached his ears.

The snake (It told him that snakes didn't have names - they didn't need them. Harry wished that humans didn't need names. He didn't like it when the Dursleys called out his – they had many for him. None of them were particularly nice) had been hunting and had not been happy at being disturbed and distracted.

Mid way into the subsequent conversation it had apologised for the new wound on Harry's palm though - which is more than he'd ever received from his family - being bitten had stung for sure but Snake wasn't like its deadlier cousins, it had no venom so Harry was ultimately fine. (Uncle Vernon's punches hurt more)

Harry liked Snake.

Aunt Petunia didn't.

Her scream was shrill and warbling (but obviously not loud enough to spread beyond the garden fence - what would the _neighbours_ think?) and within a minute Snake was nothing more than an ugly stain of guts and scales on the underside of the garden shovel.

Afterwards his Aunt had wrapped her claws around his wrist and thrown him back into his cupboard. She cooked dinner that night and Harry was left alone until both her and Dudley had gone to bed.

Then it was just Vernon and Harry.

( _Uncle and Freak_ )

( _Belt and blood_ )

And now there's just Harry.

Harry who is dressed in what little remains of Dudley's enormous cast offs. Harry who cooks and cleans and gardens - all at the tender age of five. Harry who dreams of blood and hearts and fire, of beards and red hair with green lights and _magic_.

 **Harry**.

He doesn't hear that name much.


	3. Chapter Two

Aged seven, Harry Potter decided he needed a weapon.

 _Immediately_.

It wasn't exactly a spontaneous decision, his sudden desire for a tool of protection.

No.

Because Harry had _dreams_.

He'd had them for as long as he could remember, dreams of walking, talking and thinking - all within another's body. Interacting with strange people, people who called him ( _him_!) family, or a friend.

In his dreams he wasn't Harry Potter, resident freak of privet Drive, no he became Dream-man. (Powerful and strong and dreadfully brave)

In his dreams some called Dream-man an enemy, a killer and a monster as well as a whole bunch of other nasty stuff. But Harry tried to ignore them. Dream-man was nothing like Harry (The evil Potter that killed his parents, if he's gonna kill them then at least do the job properly and get rid of himself too) he was strong and smart with friends and family and magic.

Dream-man was everything Harry could never be and therefore the exact opposite of Harry.

(Harry was the monster. Not Dream-man. _Never_ Dream-man.)

Besides. It was Harry's dream. If he said Dream-man wasn't a monster than he wasn't.

End of.

Anyway, there was one defining factor for Dream-man that inspired Harry, gave him a goal.

Dream-man was powerful.

Not only in magic (not to say that he wasn't but magic terrified Harry to his very core - "THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS MAGIC YOU DISGUSTING FREAK!") and magic wasn't Dream-man's strongest weapon.

No.

Dream-man spoke.

He weaved words like mathmaticians solved complex algorithms. He twisted minds with the skill of a scientist testing a new hypothesis - sometimes it didn't work and something went wrong. There was always the chance of an extraneous variable messing up the web Dream-man created.

(But how could Dream-man resist with the chance that it could work and _everything_ could change)

Again and again his silver-tongue would strike like a proud viper. (Serrated teeth slicing through flesh and bone. Even as its victim's blood attempts in vain to combat the vicious onslaught of poison flowing though his veins.)

And the people would _fall_.

Not always immediately, sometimes Dream-man played with them. (Teasing. Teasing. No poison yet. I'll keep you alive and you can run. Don't worry. I'll catch you) Taunting them with empty promises and trickery that broke them but left poor, young, innocent Harry feeling _alive_ in a way he had never felt before.

Dream-man immersed himself in a world of knowledge and information, striking deals with the darkest of the dark, bartering with the men who believed in justice and light, watching from a distance as empires crumbled and from their ruins civilisation _found a way_.

(Even when everything seemed lost. Dream-man _found a way_ )

Dream-man was everything Harry aspired to be. But Harry knew, the words weren't his weapon. Not yet anyway.

Because Harry was scared. Words hurt. They always had and Harry was nearly always their victim. The whispers from the neighbours, the Dursleys' slurs and insults, his teachers contempt and annoyance. Words had never meant anything positive to him.

In any case, he hardly spoke as it was, preferring instead to allow the people around him to come to their own conclusions. (They wouldn't listen. Why should he bother?)

And so Harry decided that his goal was to find an act he was comfortable with performing that he knew had the potential to affect everyone around him and anyone he wanted.

Harry wasn't good with words, with speaking and giving his opinions, so he decided he'd do the opposite.

Harry Potter _listened_.

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

 _"There is power in words, son, sometimes a single sentence can break a man far more than a sword ever could."_

I _gnotus sits at his writing desk, cheek balanced on his closed fist and legs swinging to an unheard tune. His gaze is locked on Father, as he listens his grey-blue eyes are narrowed in contemplation._

 _"Despite you not being my first, on indeed second, heir-" here Father stops momentarily to release a sigh and direct a sharp glare out of the window before schooling his expression into a neutral mask once more. "You are a source of pride to me. Unlike your... brothers, you and you alone have studied and practised and learned until your hands bled. You and you alone have understood the gravitas of our situation."_

 _Ignotus straightens in his seat, his swinging legs come to a halt and his eyes are wide and gleaming, so focused upon Father that he is._

 _"Our family is dying," continues Father, "of what was once hundreds of able bodied men and women there remain only four."_

 _Father frowns at this, glancing down toward his desk and the crimson soaked handkerchief that lays there, innocently mocking him. "Soon - soon to be three,"_

 _Ignotus notices the glance and gulps, sharp teeth biting into chapped lips as he tries not to think about the future._

 _(Tries not to think about loss, and the bitter aftertaste of acceptance.)_

 _"So what will it be, **Ignotus**?" Father asks, "Will you follow the path of your brothers into obscurity and weaknesses. Or will you listen and learn and ultimately rise as my new heir. As my apprentice. As my legacy!"_

 _Fathers words are feverish and strained, the ramblings of a man with nothing left but failed legacies and mistakes._

 _Perhaps, Ignotus realises, the words of a madman._

 _"What do you say,_ _Son_ "

 _An extended hand, an offer._

( _The words of a **madman** )_

 _Ignotus doesn't hesitate._

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

Harry's eyes opened slowly as he adjusted to the darkness of his cupboard when just seconds ago he'd been in a large room filled with light.

(Vivid so vivid. I don't like reality - reality hurts - can I live through my dreams?)

Harry lowered his hand from where it had been ready to accept a mad man's (Father's) offer.

"Ignotus,"

It was hard to speak, his throat was burning and his lips were parched.

(Aunt Petunia had introduced a brand new punishment. No matter how similar they looked acid and water _weren't_ the same thing, as Harry had found out through firsthand experience.)

But the name was familiar. It felt, tasted even - however strange that may sound, familiar. Like sampling your mother's

cooking for the first time in years, or meeting a childhood friend after forgetting they even existed.

Harry had seen flickers of this man's life for as long as he could remember, at this point he knows Drea- Ignotus - better than his own parents.

Slowly a smile began to spread across the scarred boy's lips, even as they opened once more.

" **Ignotus**."


	4. Chapter Three

"Absolutely appalling manners, disgusting habits this one has!"

 _'I'm sorry.'_

Mrs Julia Ford, the main teacher of class 2LFD, drew in a heavy breath even as she continued her verbal assault, "The boy fails on a daily basis to answer when his name is called in the register and so far the only homework he's handed in (this entire year!) was a project completed during class," the teacher shook her head at the head teacher of Lance Junior School before folding her arms across her chest.

 _'He stole it from me. I did it! I swear I did my homework Mrs!'_

Said head teacher, one Mr Knightly, frowned and clasped his hands together over the top of his desk. With a disappointed sigh he turned his gaze onto the misbehaving boy, who stood to the right of his desk, eyes glued to the floor as though hoping a pit would open up and swallow him whole.

 _'It's not my fault'_

"Well?" Knightly asked, "This is the third time this month you"ve been called to my office for bad behaviour young man.

 _'Why do you never-'_

What have you got to say for yourself, Mr Potter?"

 _'- listen?'_

Harry said nothing.

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

No one cared about Harry.

It wasn't that surprising really. Why would they? He was so obviously a delinquent in the making with his messy hair and dirty clothing, not to mention his disgusting attitude. In comparison to the respectable and proper Dursley family he was a stain. A malicious stain if his teachers and aunt were to be believed.

At that point in time, with bruises that looked almost hand-like and suspiciously frying-pan-shaped burns adorning his arms Harry had given up trying to get others to see.

His pleas were seen as irritating attention seeking, his crying was a weakness and his accusations? Mrs Birch from number six had immediately marched him back to the Dursleys and demanded he apologise for such slanderous words to the ones who had taken him in and lovingly raised him after his parents' death.

(Vernon's punishment that night wasn't exactly fun)

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

Harry stared out of the window.

One perk of his classroom were the large windows spanning the lenth of the room's right wall, the wall that Harry - luckily enough - was seated next to. His class was on the second floor giving him the somewhat scenic view of several fields, most filled with flocks of hungry sheep.

Sure it wasn't the best of views, but anything was better than listening to Mrs Ford who was droning on about yet another topic he knew next to nothing about.

It wasn't as if he hasn't tried studying, to be fair he wasn't exactly putting much effort into working currently, but after being constantly belitled by his cousin Harry was tired.

He'd lost count of how many times his homework had been left in shambles following a Dudley shaped hurricane, sometimes the pig even knicked Harry's work and claimed it as his own.

Dudley wasn't constrained by the school rules whatsoever.

Within the two years since Harry had begun attending school he'd already been pushed down the stairs five times, had a football kicked into his face eleven times and been locked in one of the cramped PE lockers for eight hours. Twice.

So yeah, all considering it wasn't _t_ _hat_ surprising for Harry to have given up on the attention front. Personally he hoped that as long as he tried extra hard on the tests at the end of the year everything would be okay.

"- your new teacher,"

Harry caught the tail end of Mrs Ford's sentence and looked up, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. A new teacher?

Interesting.

There had been several new teachers over the span on Harry's education, for some reason his class seemed to be popular with training teachers. Unfortunately, for their class most of the teachers left after short tenures. The shortest had only lasted four days.

Unaware of Harry's inner thoughts their teacher continued, "Mr Fenix is a recent graduate from the university of Cambridge," she gushed, "and he's been offered an opportunity, thanks to our headmaster, to teach some trial classes here to see if he can become a permanent part of our school board," Mrs Ford smiled again before heading over to the doorway and knocking on the glass pane that decorates the middle of said door.

After a moment of hesitation the doorknob turned and a man nervously entered the classroom.

He seemed normal enough. With walnut brown hair swept to the side and partially layered with the longest strands reaching his chin, as well as high cheekbones that rose to allow a beamng smile to spread across his face. Mr Fenix seemd completely unassuming.

As a matter of fact, the only somewhat interesting part of Mr Fenix were his electric blue eyes, which seemed almost unnaturally bright.

Nevertheless, after a cursory scan Harry quickly dismissed the new teacher and turned his attention back to the window.

( _One of the sheep had moved_ )

Unfortunately for the Potter it seemed that his new teacher had some sort of interest in him. Thoughout the entirety of their first and second period whenever the class had begun to silently (well... as silent as hyperactive kids could be) work on their assigned work Fenix had stared at him. Harry felt the weight of the blue eyes that bored into his back and shivered.

And the worst part of it?

Fenix didn't even seem embarrassed.

Anytime Harry had looked up and caught the new teacher's eye the man had simply met his gaze evenly, once even letting a slow and lazy smirk cross his lips before quickly schooling his expression as he turned back to Mrs Ford.

Harry had quickly looked down after that, figuring it might be easier to just focus on his work and puzzle out the mystery of the new teacher later on.

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

"Sooooo? What did you think of your class Mr Fenix? I bet it was very different from your university classes," Julia Ford leant back on her chair and watched with a smile as her new colleague tidied the classroom, carefully sorting through the hurricane of toys the kids had left on their wake. "And if you don't mind me asking, I never actually caught your name?"

Finally finished putting the legos into their special bin the younger man rose and turned to face Julia with a gentle smile.

"I, uh - I actually really enjoyed myself," he said, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck, "Being able to teach the kids, seeing people learning from what I'm teaching? It's pretty amazing. The fact I'm gonna have such an impact on people, it's kinda scary."

Julia chuckled and stood, walking around her desk to place a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know how you feel," she said with a smile, "when I first became a teacher I was scared, pardon my french, shitless. Especially considering I had no one to talk to. But don't worry, you've got me and the other to help you get accustomed to this!" She ended with a smile that Fenix gladly returned before the boy blinked and raised a hand to his neck again, she supposed it was a nervous tick of his.

"Ah, thank you! That means a lot~ And you asked for my name, right?" The boy beamed and stepped back before reaching out to shake her hand,

"Felix Fenix at your service ma'am!"

She blinked.

"Felix Fenix?" She tested, confused by the similarity in forename and surname.

Felix chuckled lightly before nodding, "da, my parents were very fond of tongue twisters you see,"

Julia grinned in returned good nature before she glanced at the clock and her complexion grew ashen, "W-well, Felix, it's been lovely to talk but my husband will be home soon and wondering where I am," she patted the boy's shoulder a final time before heading for the door, pausing briefly to throw some final words over her shoulder, "Don't bother locking up, the caretaker will handle that, head home and get ready to be here bright and early, see you tommorow Felix!"

Soon the echoing clack of her shoes on the corridor was the only proof of her lingering presence.

Left alone in the class Felix dropped his hand from his neck, fingers unconsciously flexing and forming claw like shapes.

( _Eerie blue eyes flashed as yellow fought for control, fortunately the yellow eventually gave up and receded back into the depths_ )

"See you tommorow. Julia Ford."

(Julia Ford sighed and smacked her hand against her forehead in irritation. Of course. After asking for his forename she'd forgotten to give Felix her own)

 **XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX**

 _The funeral is a small affair, dark and dreary._

 _Somewhat appropriate considering who's funeral it is._

 _Ignotus doesn't bother to dress up, there isn't any point really, his normal clothes are black_ _and fit in just fine._

 _His brothers don't even try though. Antoich wears hos normal embroidered white shirt with billowing cape, and Cadmus taps his foot impatiently as the funeral pyre is built._

 _Beneath his long sleeves Ignotus feels his hands clench._

 _(Do they feel no shame? This is Father!)_

 _The Priest steps forward, lit torch in hand and asks for someone to light the pyre._

 _Antoich huffs and looks away whilst Cadmus mutters darkly ('what if the dust gets on my new shirt?') taking great pains to keep his expression neutral Ignotus steps forward and grasps the wood between sweaty palms._

 _He wields it like a sword, holding ot straight in front of him, taking a deep breath before stepping forward and letting the fire meet the wooden pyre._

 _The flames spread quickly. Ravenous they rise, reaching with greedy hands toward the sky and, upon realising the futility of said action, gorging themselves on Father's body. The flames snarl and growl at any perceived interference as, slowly but surely, father is turned to ash and returned to the earth and magic he so loved._

 _Ignotus snaps to awareness as he hears the soft tap of receding footsteps on grass. He doesn't need to turn, doesn't need to look to recognise his brother's footsteps as the two leave early._

 _(wHo Do yOu ThInK yOU arE!?)_

 _Nearby the priest hesitates, casting a nervous gaze between the gradually dissapearing pyre, Ignotus and the two eldest Peverells. Seemingly coming to a decision the priest mutters a quick prayer, nods once to Ignotus and trots after Antoich and Cadmus._

 _Multiple trails of blood fall from Ignotus's sleeves as sharp nails dig crescents into soft palms._

 _The fire continues to burn._


End file.
